looking over the work while Sol, the painter, who always looked as if he needed a shave, followed them around and touched up a few spots. Back in the kitchen, Ben reached in his pocket and peeled off two hundred and thirty five dollars and handed it to Sol.
Tipping his cap and bowing, the painter smiled, showing a missing tooth.
“Tank you mister and you too, missus,” he said in a heavy accent, quickly stuffing the money in the pocket of his white paint spattered overalls. Picking up the last of his brushes and empty paint cans, he and his helper left through the back door, still bowing as they walked out carefully but noisily clanking the cans, down the three flights of stairs.
Closing the door behind them, Molly turned to Ben with raised eyebrows. “How come you gave him cash? Don’t we want a bill and a cancelled check or something for our records?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Ben laughed, taking off his jacket and tossing it over a dining room chair as he took his newspaper into the parlor.
Molly picked up the jacket and draped it over her arm, at the same time brushing off the rose colored seat fabric.
“Please honey, don’t mess up our beautiful walnut dining chairs,” she said adding, “What don’t I get?”
Smiling, he looked up from his paper. “You know I take in a lot of cash at the restaurant. If I don’t show it all on my books, I don’t have to declare it on my taxes.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” she answered, creasing her forehead, trying to figure out what he meant. “But what about the painter, I don’t understand.”
“Look, baby, Sol wanted two hundred and seventy dollars to do our job, but when I told him I would pay in cash, the greener picked up on it right away and changed his price to two-thirty-five. Now do you get it?”
“The greener?” she asked, crunching her face.
“You don’t know what a greener is? Oh my God, What kind of Jewish girl did I marry?” he laughed. “You know, a greenhorn , someone that just got off the boat from the old country.”
She placed the folded jacket carefully on the couch and leaned over him in the chair, kissing his ear and whispering sexily, “Oy, what a smart guy I married.”
Getting up, he dropped the newspaper and kissed her, at the same time playfully grabbing a handful of her behind. She slapped at his hand. “Don’t get any ideas, dinner will be ready soon and I know you don’t want overcooked pot roast and potatoes. Go read your newspaper.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he groaned.
She picked up the jacket, quickly retreating to hang it in the bedroom closet, and returned to the kitchen.
Still grinning, he straightened the white doilies on the arms of the new green velour easy chair before settling in to read. “Where’s the baby?” he yelled into the kitchen. “Don’t I even get a kiss hello?”
“She’s here in her high chair,” he heard her shout. “If you want a kiss, come in here.”
Busy lighting a cigar, he didn’t answer, just smiled and rattled open the paper to the sports section.
All went well until 1930, a year into the Great Depression that was sweeping the country. It was a difficult time for the Siegals. For the first time in their marriage, they struggled to pay the rent and meet their bills. Business at the restaurant had fallen off considerably. In January that year, while Molly was pregnant with Shirley, Ben let the cook go and took over the kitchen himself. It didn’t help much. He was still falling behind on his loan payments to Mike O’Hara, Tim’s brother, from whom he’d borrowed money to keep the business going.
Molly, almost ready to deliver her new baby, cried when Ben came home late on a Friday evening, his tie undone and smelling of liquor. Ignoring her tears, he poured a scotch. Walking into the living room, he turned off the radio and turned to her as he sipped on the drink and sat down.
“We gottta talk,” he said slurring his words
Tipping his cap and bowing, the painter smiled, showing a missing tooth.
“Tank you mister and you too, missus,” he said in a heavy accent, quickly stuffing the money in the pocket of his white paint spattered overalls. Picking up the last of his brushes and empty paint cans, he and his helper left through the back door, still bowing as they walked out carefully but noisily clanking the cans, down the three flights of stairs.
Closing the door behind them, Molly turned to Ben with raised eyebrows. “How come you gave him cash? Don’t we want a bill and a cancelled check or something for our records?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Ben laughed, taking off his jacket and tossing it over a dining room chair as he took his newspaper into the parlor.
Molly picked up the jacket and draped it over her arm, at the same time brushing off the rose colored seat fabric.
“Please honey, don’t mess up our beautiful walnut dining chairs,” she said adding, “What don’t I get?”
Smiling, he looked up from his paper. “You know I take in a lot of cash at the restaurant. If I don’t show it all on my books, I don’t have to declare it on my taxes.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” she answered, creasing her forehead, trying to figure out what he meant. “But what about the painter, I don’t understand.”
“Look, baby, Sol wanted two hundred and seventy dollars to do our job, but when I told him I would pay in cash, the greener picked up on it right away and changed his price to two-thirty-five. Now do you get it?”
“The greener?” she asked, crunching her face.
“You don’t know what a greener is? Oh my God, What kind of Jewish girl did I marry?” he laughed. “You know, a greenhorn , someone that just got off the boat from the old country.”
She placed the folded jacket carefully on the couch and leaned over him in the chair, kissing his ear and whispering sexily, “Oy, what a smart guy I married.”
Getting up, he dropped the newspaper and kissed her, at the same time playfully grabbing a handful of her behind. She slapped at his hand. “Don’t get any ideas, dinner will be ready soon and I know you don’t want overcooked pot roast and potatoes. Go read your newspaper.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he groaned.
She picked up the jacket, quickly retreating to hang it in the bedroom closet, and returned to the kitchen.
Still grinning, he straightened the white doilies on the arms of the new green velour easy chair before settling in to read. “Where’s the baby?” he yelled into the kitchen. “Don’t I even get a kiss hello?”
“She’s here in her high chair,” he heard her shout. “If you want a kiss, come in here.”
Busy lighting a cigar, he didn’t answer, just smiled and rattled open the paper to the sports section.
All went well until 1930, a year into the Great Depression that was sweeping the country. It was a difficult time for the Siegals. For the first time in their marriage, they struggled to pay the rent and meet their bills. Business at the restaurant had fallen off considerably. In January that year, while Molly was pregnant with Shirley, Ben let the cook go and took over the kitchen himself. It didn’t help much. He was still falling behind on his loan payments to Mike O’Hara, Tim’s brother, from whom he’d borrowed money to keep the business going.
Molly, almost ready to deliver her new baby, cried when Ben came home late on a Friday evening, his tie undone and smelling of liquor. Ignoring her tears, he poured a scotch. Walking into the living room, he turned off the radio and turned to her as he sipped on the drink and sat down.
“We gottta talk,” he said slurring his words
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